27. There She Goes
There She Goes
Charlotte
October 31st 1998
C ity lights blur past the windows of Arden’s car, and I smooth the heavy ruby silk of my gown over my thighs.
Arden reclines lazily on the seat beside me. I could eat the man with a spoon.
He gives me a crooked smile. “What are you thinking?”
“That if you ever decided to hang up your hat in law, you could be a tuxedo model.”
His lips twitch. “I’m doing my best to keep up with you. I can’t have somebody trying to steal you away from me.”
I glance down. “Rochelle did a great job on the dress.”
“Nothing else would be worthy of you,” he says.
I wipe my damp palm on my thigh. “Thank you.” The dress is her original design, and it’s spectacular. I initially thought tonight would be Halloween costumes, but it turns out it’s another excuse for rich women to wear evening gowns. The only things giving trick-or-treat vibes are the masks we’ll wear.
I’d choose Rochelle’s dress over some famous designer every time. The fabric cost an arm and a leg. I dipped into my savings to pay for it, and we had to road-trip to Philly to find it, but the payoff was Arden looking like he swallowed his tongue when I put it on.
At Arden’s insistence, I spent the afternoon at a spa. I’d never had a real pedicure, let alone all the waxing, scrubbing, polishing, and moisturizing those people did. My toes and fingernails match the color of the dress. My hair now has subtle highlights and is in a glossy updo with a few strands hanging artfully around my face. My eyebrows are “perfection” according to the young woman who shaped them. And they applied my makeup with an airbrush, like my face was a T-shirt at the county fair.
The only thing that would have made the day better was if Rochelle, Mom, and Teresa were there with me. Rochelle would have pretended to eat the cucumber slices they use for eye bags. And Mom would have told everyone they were doing such a good job.
I force my fingers to stop twisting the material. I’m excited. That’s all this is.
“There’s nothing to be nervous about. I’ll stay beside you. If you’re not comfortable with a question someone asks, squeeze my arm,” Arden says.
Somehow his reassurances amplify my butterflies. “Okay.”
“We’ll leave before midnight to avoid anyone seeing your face. Which reminds me . . .”
He produces two masks from a compartment in the door. His is white molded leather. Mine is silky, but sturdy, black lace and dotted with glittering crystals. It’s made to cover both eyes, most of my nose and the entire left side of my face in a design reminiscent of The Phantom of the Opera .
I run a finger over the soft material. “This puts the one I borrowed from the theater in the shade. It’s so realistic.”
His brow furrows in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“They look like actual rubies and diamonds.”
“What else would they be?”
My heart lurches. “Cubic zirconia?”
He shakes his head, expression wary.
I touch the choker around my neck, then the heavy teardrops at my ears. “These are . . .”
He frowns. “Of course.”
I suck in a breath, then straighten my leg to show him my foot. “If you tell me these are diamonds on my shoes, I’m going to faint.”
He hesitates, then licks his bottom lip. “Then I won’t tell you.”
“Arden!”
He laughs and leans closer. “Let me spoil you a little tonight.”
When he places the mask over my eyes and ties the ribbons behind my head, his scent and proximity go straight to my hormones.
“Do you need me to loosen it?” he asks quietly, his warm breath skimming over my ear.
We’ve almost arrived. This is not the time to get turned on. Bad Charlotte . “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
He drops a kiss to the corner of my mouth.
When he puts on his own mask, his twilight-blue eyes become hidden in shadow, the planes of his cheekbones, lips, and jaw like something from a sculpture.
The car comes to a stop.
“Stay close to me. The security team will flank us. There won’t be any reporters once we’re inside. They’ll recognize me, even with the mask, but they have no way of knowing who you are.”
“Got it.”
One of the men with an earpiece opens our door. Flashes fire before Arden sets foot on the red carpet. He offers me his hand, and I climb out to stand beside him, my thigh momentarily exposed through the slit in the gown.
Instantly, he curves around me, tucking me into his shoulder. Hiding me against him. I’ve seen Arden protecting a woman like this before, when I sat in the university library and scrolled through photos of his past.
I shift, straightening. My face is covered by the mask. I don’t need to hide against his shoulder. I’m nervous, not helpless.
He responds by tightening his hold and angling his hand to cover my face. “You’re okay. Keep your head down and turned toward me. I’ve got you.”
Maybe he thinks I’m panicking. If I push back, it’ll look as though I’m trying to get away from him. So I allow Arden to keep me smashed against his shoulder, and I trip along beside him as reporters holler at us and fire their flashes.
“Mr. McRae, who are you escorting this evening?”
“What’s your name?”
“Arden, how long have you been dating?”
“Is your relationship serious?”
“Show us your face.”
“Why are you hiding?”
“What are you afraid of?”
I hate the shouted questions and the blinding flashes from the paparazzi, but I hate them thinking I’m afraid of them more. Arden just announced to the world that I’m not his date or partner, but a victim in need of protection.
When the doors close behind us, we walk through a lobby, then turn onto a corridor. Once we’re out of sight, he loosens his hold immediately.
I check to be sure no one can hear us.
“I didn’t need to hide against you. I’m wearing a mask,” I say quietly.
“The flashes are blinding if you look into them. There’s no point starting the night stressed by the paparazzi.” His response is just as low.
I tug on his arm and stop moving. “I get that. I won’t look at the cameras. But common sense says acting afraid of them will only cause a feeding frenzy.” They’re bullies, and God knows I have experience dealing with those. Never show your tormentors they ’ re getting to you.
“I don’t want them to hurt you. You don’t understand how deeply they can affect a person,” he says quietly.
“They won’t recognize me. That’s the only part I care about.”
His jaw tightens. “And I want to keep it that way. You’ve shared your concerns with me about the press, so I’m handling it for you.”
I shake my head. “Not like this. It’s a mistake, and it’s humiliating,” I say.
“We can talk about it later.”
“We’ll discuss it before we face them again.” I agree this is a terrible place to have a serious conversation, but when I leave tonight, I’m doing it with my head up.
Arden nods and offers me his arm once more, ushering me farther down the elegant hallway. To our right, a long table holds what look like gift bags.
Were we supposed to bring a present?
I no sooner have the thought, than Arden passes our invitation to a man at the door, and a masked woman who probably moonlights as a runway model hands each of us a bag.
I smile, careful not to show my crooked bottom teeth. “Thank you.”
“Enjoy your evening,” she says.
When the woman walks away, I tug on Arden’s arm. “What are these for?”
“Party favors.”
“Party favors,” I squeak, “are embossed matchbooks and sugared almonds, not giant gift bags full of—” I wheeze when I look inside.
There’s a square box with a Cartier label, a Hermés bag, a Dior belt, and several packages that appear to be perfume, imported Belgium chocolates, and cosmetics. I shake my head, speechless.
“Don’t worry, you don’t have to carry it around all night.” He jerks his chin, and one of his security team appears beside us within seconds.
Arden takes my outrageous goodie bag and passes it, along with his own, to the guard.
Then we enter a cavernous space lit with massive chandeliers. A full orchestra plays in the background.
And an elegant white woman, wearing a black and ivory gown, her silver hair bobbed at her chin in the cut she’s been famous for since she notoriously dumped the prince of a European nation to marry Arden McRae II . . . is coming this way.